Sizing Up a Problem
by Abracadebra
Summary: Sometimes weights and measures add up to mass confusion for our heroes. And if the US and Britain are two countries separated by a common language, just consider how confusing things get when you throw France into the equation. The working title was "Of Mass and Men," and you'll see why. Winner of two Papa Bear Awards including Gold/Best Short Comedy and Bronze/Best Quote.


"Well done, chaps," Group Captain Whipsnade of the RAF intoned over the radio from London. "We've known for some time that the Jerries at Hillersleben have been working on the Sun Gun. Once we analyze the control console and prototype that you've captured, we'll have a jolly good idea of whether they're onto something."

Hogan and his core team were gathered around the table in the radio room, getting their orders for dispatching the little prize they'd stumbled across when a team of visiting scientists passed through Stalag XIII. They'd cleverly ensured that the Krauts believed they had "accidentally" destroyed their latest dastardly invention and then slipped it out of their hands.

"There's just one thing," Whipsnade added. "We're sending in an American craft, a Grasshopper, to retrieve the equipment tomorrow. Papa Bear, I'm sure you're familiar with it. It can take a hundredweight in extra cargo—no more, and it oughtn't to be much less. So plan accordingly."

"Roger that," Hogan said as Kinch disconnected the call with London.

"_Qu'est ce que c'est_, Grasshopper, _mon Colonel_?" LeBeau inquired.

"It's a light aircraft built on a Piper Cub frame. Our guys are using them for courier flights and low-level recon missions," Hogan said. "It's fabric covered, with a small engine, and it's a little bouncy. It can go the distance, but it can't carry a lot of weight."

"_Sauterelle_, LeBeau," Kinch translated as the Frenchman bobbed his head in recognition. Kinch continued:"But I'm still stuck on Sun Gun. What do you know about it, Colonel?"

"_Sonnengewehr_," Hogan said. "Yep, that's something the German Army Artillery has been cooking up for some time. A super weapon that harnesses the sun's energy."

"Oh, I learned about that in my ordnance class at Fort Lee," Carter chimed in. "With a big enough reflector, you could burn a city, or even boil an ocean!"

"Ruddy twisters," Newkirk said. "Conquering Europe and bombing England's not enough for them. They have to go about scorching cities and stewing large bodies of water. Well, they're not boiling the English channel, mates."

"Nobody's boiling English anything, Newkirk, except maybe water for tea," Hogan said calmly. "OK, you guys know what you need to do. Weigh the equipment, pack it up safely, and make sure it's not an ounce over a hundredweight. You'll need to build a cargo box, so you'll be able to adjust it to get that weight right on the dime."

"_Mon Colonel_, what is this 'hundredweight'?" LeBeau inquired.

Newkirk and Carter scoffed simultaneously.

"It's a hundred pounds, LeBeau," Carter said.

"No it isn't," Newkirk said irritably, which is to say, in his normal tone of voice when addressing Carter.

"Yes it is," Carter replied.

"T'isn't," Newkirk countered.

"Yes it is, Newkirk," Carter replied.

"T'isn't," Newkirk snapped.

"Guys. This isn't an argument; it's just contradiction," Hogan said.

"No it isn't," Newkirk said hesitantly, starting to feel outgunned.

"Shut up, Newkirk," Hogan said. "Carter's right. A hundredweight is a hundred pounds."

"No it isn't, Sir. A hundredweight is eight stone," Newkirk insisted. "It's more than a hundred pounds. It's, um," he did the math in his head, "one hundred twelve pounds, Sir," he said.

"Hmm. Is that a British thing?" Hogan asked. Newkirk looked at him in confusion, apparently caught up short by the notion that there could be any standard other than a British one, so Hogan elaborated: "Is it a British weight of measure?"

"Well, I reckon it is, Sir, since you Yanks, I mean Americans, don't seem familiar with it. It's an imperial hundredweight. And seeing as we got the orders from the RAF, I should think that's what they meant—not whatever lesser hundredweight Andrew here has in mind," Newkirk said, waving his hand dismissively.

"All right, all right. Sniping aside, you've got a point," Hogan allowed. "But how to you get to 112 pounds?"

"As I said, it's eight stone, Sir. I just multiplied," Newkirk said, baffled at the ignorance of Americans, even officers.

Silence.

"OK, I'll ask," Hogan said. "What's a stone?"

Newkirk rolled his eyes and searched the room for what he assumed would be an instant sign of recognition. He was met with blank stares and blurted out, "Cor blimey, it's 14 pounds! Don't they teach you nothing in American schools?" He added meekly, "Um, Sir?"

"Only English grammar," Hogan said. "So eight times 14…"

"Yes, of course," Newkirk said, mentally drumming his fingers. "Put down the two, carry the three…"

"I can do math, Newkirk," Hogan replied.

"Math_sssss_," Newkirk muttered under his breath. "Yes, I'm sure you can, Sir," he added brightly.

Carter was calculating. "One hundred twelve pounds," he said triumphantly.

"Blimey, what did I say 15 minutes ago?" Newkirk said with exasperation, which is to say his normal tone of voice when challenged.

"All right, all right," Hogan said. "One hundred twelve pounds it is. Kinch, double check it with London, but I suspect Newkirk here is right for a change," he added, glaring at the annoying thought that Newkirk might have scored a point at his expense. "Men, get to work. No squabbling, and I want to see a crate built by 2100 hours, and pack it up so we can weigh it. But fellas?"

"Yes, Sir?" his team said in near unison.

"Don't seal the crate. We have to get it above ground and to our rendezvous site or we won't be able to carry it," Hogan gently reminded them.

"Gosh, Sir, I don't think we'd do anything that stupid," Carter said.

Hogan just stared. As he turned and headed up the ladder to the barracks, he could be heard muttering "Keystone Cops" plain as day.

"Right, then, our nut's one hundred twelve pounds," Newkirk said. "Let's weigh up the equipment."

"_Un moment_," LeBeau said. "Somebody remind me—what's a pound?"

Kinch stepped in before Newkirk could ratchet up his fury. "About 450 grams, LeBeau."

"Sixteen ounces to a pound," Carter added helpfully.

"But it's also English money," LeBeau said. "So, 16 shillings to a pound, too?"

"Of course not," Newkirk sniffed. "Twenty shillings to a pound."

"I thought it was 12," Carter said.

"Carter, I'm British. Don't you think I know how many shillings there are in a pound?" He turned to LeBeau. "It's 20, mate."

"It makes no sense. Twenty when it's money, but 16 when it's weight?"

Carter was still stuck on 12. "What's 12, then?"

"Twelve. Pence. To. A. Shilling," Newkirk pronounced carefully as if speaking to the village idiot, which he clearly thought he was doing. "But Carter, you're just confounding LeBeau. How do you expect a Frenchman to understand the marvelous complexity of British currency?"

"Hey!" LeBeau said, shoving Newkirk into the table. "The only thing I don't understand is why the English have two different ways of counting a pound."

Kinch weighed in. "LeBeau, forget about money. We're not talking about pounds sterling. We're talking about mass."

But Newkirk talked right over him, making an impassioned case to LeBeau as he gestured at Kinch and Carter with disdain. "Well, the Americans have all those quarters and knickers and copper bits," he said, grasping desperately but unsuccessfully for any monetary slang he'd picked up in camp. "You can't possibly think THAT makes any sense."

"Well, at least it's a decimal system," Carter said with uncharacteristic huffiness. "It all adds up to a hundred. Just like a hundredweight should."

"Colonist," Newkirk spat back.

Carter shook his head and looked to Kinch for an explanation: "Is that an insult?"

"Clearly Newkirk thinks so," Kinch said with a grin. "Look, guys, teamwork, OK? Concentrate on pulling your materials together. LeBeau, get some wood for the box. Newkirk, scrounge up the nails and hammer. And Carter, let's get that equipment out here and start weighing it."

"I'll get the scale, Kinch," Carter said. He ventured back into a tunnel, came out with a flat scale, and dusted it off. Then he fiddled around with the dial until he had calibrated it to zero.

The men reassembled and began the precise work of weighing the equipment. Newkirk anointed himself head counter on the strength of his demonstrated adding and multiplying prowess. He began jotting down and tallying up the numbers that LeBeau called out.

It was Carter, however, who first noticed a problem.

"These numbers don't go very high," he observed. "What kind of a scale is this?"

"It's a ruddy German scale, that 's what it is!" Newkirk complained. "It's not pounds or ounces at all. It's… it's…"

"It's metric, you idiot," LeBeau said. "_Dieu merci_. And it's European, not German. You English speakers are the only ones who use those pounds and ounces. Feet and inches." He rounded on Carter and Kinch. "I don't' know why you Americans stuck with any of it! I thought you were against foreign rulers!"

"The system of weights is called _avoirdupois_, mate. Sounds bloody French to me," Newkirk sniped.

"Not the way you pronounce it, it doesn't," LeBeau answered back.

"All right, shut up, all of you," Kinch said. "Newkirk, do the math. Divide 112 pounds by, um"—he consulted a handbook—"by 2.2046 to get the metric equivalent."

Carter and LeBeau simultaneously snorted. As if Newkirk could do that calculation! For his part, Newkirk resisted the temptation to mutter "maths" again and set to work.

"Fifty … point eight .. and a sliver, which we shall round to zero," Newkirk said in what even LeBeau and Carter recognized as an impressive display of arithmetical speed and accuracy. Kinch checked his numbers and nodded in satisfaction.

"What's that called, anyway?" Newkirk added. "Fifty point eight what?"

"Kilograms," LeBeau said.

"Sounds violent," Newkirk replied. "Typical French and German…"

"I'll show you violent," LeBeau said, driving an elbow into Newkirk's rib cage.

"LeBeau, I've got at least two stone and eight inches on you. I'm not going to fight you," Newkirk said smugly.

Hogan had quietly returned, hoping to see some progress. Instead he was greeted by the scene of Newkirk holding LeBeau at arm's length, his hand firmly placed atop his head. Carter was attempting to tug LeBeau away from the confrontation as LeBeau kept flailing away at Newkirk, and Kinch desperately tried to referee.

Hogan just stood by shaking his head then spoke up wearily. "Break it up, guys. I'm going to pound _all_ of you if you don't finish up this assignment."

The miscreants scattered. Kinch, the only sensible one, stood alone.

"It can't be done, Colonel," Kinch said with an air of resignation, or possibly mischief.

"Why's that, Kinch?" Hogan asked.

"It's these guys, Sir. They're suffering from mass confusion," Kinch replied.

**H=H=H=H=H**

**Author's note:** The Sun Gun project at Hillersleben was a real thing. So was the ultra light Grasshopper aircraft, which was indeed used for reconnaissance and courier missions. An imperial hundredweight is 112 pounds; a North American hundredweight, sometimes called a short hundredweight, is 100 pounds. This story was inspired by the old saw that Britain and the U.S. are two nations separated by a common language. I apologize in advance for the really terrible puns-the one uttered by LeBeau as well as those spoken by poor Hogan and Kinch at the end.


End file.
